Pretty Boy Floyd, 1990-2010

Floyd through the front window, August 2007. 

Notice the just-begun mural in the distance. 

Floyd is sitting on the dishwasher that had just been delivered. 

It was installed almost exactly 3 years later.

Floyd came to the household of HomoDommi and The Texan, back when they had a household without the rest of us, around 1992.  He was part of the matched set of "Amos n' Andy", a controversial pair of names for an all-black cat and his Siamese cuddle-mate.  He passed away on the morning after the Glänsa party. (He had kidney failure - the disease of all cats who live long enough -- through which we had been coaxing him for several years.)

Amos and Andy originally belonged to a neighbor, who had got them from a rescue shelter -- as a kitten, Amos had been the victim of unknown cruelties (a too-common story of all-black cats), and as a result was shy, yet aggressive, for much of his life.  I haven't many photos of him as a young cat, because I rarely saw him - he would keep to the Texan's bedroom unless the house was quiet.

The neighbor, while not malicious, was a neglectful care-taker, leaving for long periods with only a bowl of food left on the stoop for his young cats, locked out of his house.  After a hard snow, when the neighbor had been gone for several days and was not scheduled to return for another week, The Texan and HomoDommi opened their kitchen door (who already had a friendly old cat, a Siamese named Tabitha) and invited the young cats into warmth and food. Typically for their personalities, Andy-cat immediately entered and made himself at home as if he had always lived there and always would. Amos, on the other hand, held back for several hours.  Probably the twin unpleasantnesses of the outdoor cold and the potential loss of his partner were the only reason Amos finally slunk in the door.

Two photos of kids with Andy.

There were some formalities, thereafter, about taking ownership of the pair, but pretty much the neighbor was happy to have access to, but no responsibility for, his cats.  Amos' name was changed to Pretty Boy Floyd, due to his beautiful silky soft, jet-black coat, and his violent gangster personality.

Tasha never feared Floyd.

When I moved into the house in 2005, Andy-cat and Floyd were already 15 years old.  All three resident cats, Floyd, Andy and Abbie (7 years old) took violently against Harry's interloping. Harry was 2, physically larger than all of the others (and not comfortably overweight as Abbie and Andy-cat were).  Yet Floyd led the charge, tearing across a room and attacking, whipping tufts of long white fur off the back of my poor, unprepared kitten.  (Abbie and Andy were not far behind, but, since Harry was as fast as he was young, he usually had disapparated before the other two cats could get a claw in.)  Harry, although he ultimately rose to dominance in the house (to be honest, mostly by attrition), remained obeisant to Floyd until the end. Even a month before his death, as Floyd made his laborious, blind, arthritic lope to the food bowl, Harry (now a solid double Floyd's weight) jumped up and skittered out of his way.  On the other hand, Floyd had been loyal and kind (in a cattish way) to Tabitha in her later years.

Andy-cat was Floyd's anchor and safety. They slept curled around each other, groomed each other and ranged the streets together. Andy-cat (who died in 2007) was a charmer - patient with the children, always ready for a cuddle or play, with a loud, braying Siamese voice and an easy tolerance of Floyd.  Floyd on the other hand, would scratch without warning, and skitter at the merest whisper. If he allowed you to pet him, you would be punished for stopping with a scratch or a bite, as he whipped around after that hand that was moving away.  Fierce, and fiercely loyal to Andy-cat; the two cats belonged together. Most of his adult life he had a kitten whisper, but after the death of loud Siamese Andy, Floyd's meow took on caterwauling proportions, and he would let us know where he was in the house, most of the day and night.

Christmas 2008. 

Floyd still looking in his prime, but going deaf, and thus, more friendly.

In his last years, Floyd grew deaf, his eyes blurred with cataracts and he lost his sense of smell. Ironically, withdrawing from the sensual world, drew him closer.  The absence of loud noises, fast moving lights, dangerous other-cat smells relaxed the old guy, and he grew to understand the benefits of laps and long petting sessions.  Floyd spent his later years down amongst people, hanging out in living room and television room -- anywhere he would be likely to get some attention. Occasionally he would try scratching when you stopped petting, but frankly, he was by now too slow to do any damage.

Last year, when I was at home all day in a quiet house, Floyd would spend most of the day near me, lying by the windows on a fleece. His illness required many small meals throughout the day (or we had to do a lot of cleaning up), and he'd let me know with a head butt and a loud meow that it was time for a refill. We tussled occasionally about the rights to my lap (my computer, or him) but he was a pleasant companion.

Occasionally he'd share the bed during the day, but usually I kept him off it, so he'd stay with the Texan at night. Territorial boundaries must be kept. (Photo by Girl-Child)

April, 2010

It is really hard to photograph jet-black cats, at least with a cheap point-and-click digital camera.

Farewell, Floyd.